Saturday, April 26, 2014

On the ranch, in the 50s, we burned our garbage.It was the only option.Each week, the trash cans were collected from every room in the houseCarried out to the burning barrel.Emptied into said barrel.And set alight.It was an exciting job.Okay, well, it looked exciting to me.Probably because the task came with an 'age appropriate' rating.And I hadn't reached that age.Sigh.I would scurry through the house, collecting bins for whoever was assigned.Then help them lug everything to the trash barrel.Then stand back and watch as they . . . . . . LIT THE MATCH.Oooooo!Most of the time, it only took one.I was more than fascinated.The lit match would be lowered into the barrel.A curl of smoke would issue forth.Then the first of the flames.There was nothing . . . I repeat nothing . . . more exciting.And I had been to movies.And watched Bonanza on TV.Okay, well, maybe I'd better exclude Bonanza which, incidentally, started with its own fire.I mean, who could possibly compete with Pa Cartwright?And his delicious buckskin gelding.Ahhh.I've wandered from the point . . .Where was I?Oh, yes. Garbage.And burning it.For years, I watched, enviously as, first my parents, then my older siblings got to light the match.Slowly, the day approached when I would be trusted with the all-important job.And then, it was here."Diane, would you please burn the garbage?"Eeeeeeee!I carefully collected every bin.Toted them all down to the barrel.Chose one at random and dumped its contents.Chose another.And another.And finally, surrounded by empty trash cans, the magic moment.I lit the match.And dropped it carefully into the accumulated trash.It winked out.Huh.I tried again.Same thing.This was harder than it looked.Most of a book of matches later, I discovered that I needed to choose a piece of paper as my first victim.Light that, then let it light the rest.Ahhh!Finally, I had a blaze.I stepped back and watched proudly.My first trash fire.Okay, I admit it, you have to look for opportunities to shine in this life.Within a few weeks, I was an old hand at 'burning the trash'.I could collect, empty and light with the best of them.And use one match to do it.And then the gloss wore off.Dad: "Diane. Time to take out the trash."Me: "Can't someone else do it? I'm watching Woody Woodpecker!"Blair: "I'll do it!"Dad: "Blair's too little. He can help, but Diane has to light the match."Me: [Huge sigh.] "Okay. Fine."Blair: "Yipee!"The fire circle of life.

I glanced at her
occasionally as she spouted such foreign terms as ‘face-off’ and ‘icing’ and ‘high-sticking’
and ‘penalty’. But mostly, I just sat and merrily
watched the game.

Not knowing – or caring – who was winning.

Colleen was not as . . . indifferent
as me.

She wasn’t very tall, but she could sure make her presence felt,
bobbing periodically to her feet to launch ‘criticisms’ at whichever
aggravating party was . . . aggravating. As in: “What’d’ya call that, Ref?! Are
you blind?!!!”

But as loud as she was, her behaviour had nothing on the
woman sitting in front of us, next to the boards.

Now that woman was vocal.

She used words I’d never even heard of, expertly launching
them at the ref with practiced ease.

I tried mentally editing out the more profane. But if I’d
been successful, the woman would have been sitting there with her mouth open
and nothing emerging.

Sigh.

Halfway through the game, she became a little more
pro-active.

And that’s when things really got interesting.

After flinging a particularly incendiary little ball of nastiness
at the long-suffering ref, she leaned on the boards and waited for the man to skate
past.

She didn’t have to wait for long.

If you know hockey, you know that this game goes back and
forth . . . a lot.

The ref skated by, intent on the next play, whistle in his
mouth and hands and feet working frantically.

The woman leaned over and swung her purse at him, knocking him clear into
tomorrow. I say that because it was ‘tomorrow’ before he woke up.

He was carried from the ice with reverence and care.

The woman was escorted to the hoosegow with neither of the
above.

When officers opened her purse, they discovered a bottle of
whisky.

Full.

The ref made a complete recovery, living to ref again.

Never saw that woman again, though. At least not at any hockey games.

But the lesson was learned.

Alcohol, in the right purse, can kill you.

P.S. I think the refs should be pulling in the big salaries,
they’ve got the tougher jobs . .

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Routines are important.Especially when one has many small bodies that one is trying to shuffle into bed.The bedtime ritual in the Tolley household was probably one of the most adhered-to in the entire day.Little, wiggling bodies were scrubbed clean.Teeth brushed.Hair combed.Jammies donned.Stories read.Family prayer said.And lastly, the all-important Ceremony of the Tucking In.The grand and glorious final scene in the whole bedtime scenario.I won't mention here that the tucking in was usually immediately followed by the "I can't sleep" or "I wanna drink of water" or the all important "I have to go pee".Okay, maybe I will.Moving on . . .One of our children, particularly, looked forward to being tucked in each night.Our daughter, Tiana.She would emerge happily from the bathroom, sparkling clean and dressed for bed and announce to her Dad, "I'm ready!"Whereupon (good word) he would drop the evening paper and follow her to the bedroom she shared with her sister.Then would follow the boosting into bed.The careful molding of the blankets around the warm little body.And the ever important good-night kiss.Then lights were doused, doors closed and Mom and Dad could relax.At least until the post-tucking parade began.One evening, Tiana announced to her father that she was ready to be tucked in.Then realized that she had forgotten something and disappeared.But notice had been given.Dad was already on the move.He went to her room, performed his usual ceremony.Then resumed his chair and his reading.Tiana re-appeared."I'm ready now," she said.Her father looked at her. "I already tucked you in," he said."What? I'm right here! You didn't tuck me in!""Well, I tucked somebody in."Tiana ran to her room."You tucked in my teddy bear!" she said loudly.Her father grinned into his newspaper. "Well, he was there!" he said."Dad!"After that, it was a race to see who could get to Tiana's room first.She, grinning as her father was forced to perform the usual ceremony.Or her father, who would then tuck in whatever was close at hand.Clothing.Toys.Books.Homework.Muffy.I repeat. Routines are important.

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My novel, Carving Angels

My Second Novel: Kris Kringle's Magic

About the Mom

Diane was born and raised on one of the last of the great old Southern Alberta ranches. A way of life that is fast disappearing now. Through her memories and stories, she keeps it alive. And even, at times, accurate . . .